Tie "picture.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLI, Issue 2210, 29 August 1910, Page 2

Tie "picture.

+ By FRANKFORD SOMMER VILLUS, Author of "Her American Husband," etc*, etc. Before Heaven that which I write fs the truth. You may know the old book and antiquity shop at the corner of the Via Scartini in Florence. It is famous enough among those who frequent Buch places, with its two windows crammed with old books and engravings, amulets, "ei Jibri," and Egyptian beetles. Many a louis d'or had I spent on r,he curious wares I found there, conveying them to my apartments, and many an hour had I chatted with the wizened and grey-haired old proprietor, Carlo. It was on a warm spring evening, I not having passed the ."hop for some days, that Carlo beckoned me inside ere almost I had reached the threshold. " I have kept something here for you," he said—" something that you shall see before I place it in the window ; and you shall have a chance of buying it if it please you. Once I exhibit it with the other things, it is gone—gone in a moment. Therefore I choose that you should see it first. It is very beautiful—it is marvellous. You will be delighted with it. Ecco ! " As he spoke he fumbled with the paper wrappings of a picture, and with his concluding words revealed the work of art. It was a painting on a panel and by a master hand, of a beautiful woman.

For some seconds I could not speak, plunged in the admiration I felt. A wonderful face—ah ! but how beautiful ! How am I to describe the splendour and charm of that face, I, who am no poet ?

It was the face of one little more than a girl, of a perfect oval and full cheeks. Her nose was thin and delicate, and exquisite as that of a Grecian statue ; her slightly-parted lips, living with colour, were like none I had ever seen before. You waited, when you saw them, as if by instinct, for the soft words that Bhould thrill your being as no music could. Her brow was high and white and above it lay a heavy mass of soft black hair—ltalian hair, wherein the painter had cunningly caught the lustre of youth and health. Her eyes, too, were intensely beautiful, and strange as it may sound, they seemed even in the picture to glow wita light and fervour. The girl's exquisite arms and shoulders were bare, and on her slender fingers were many rings, while her dress, in the fashion of a century or more ago, was rich and costly.

As I gazed at this entrancing object I did not know whether the more to be astonished at such beauty or at the skill that could make it like life again for the beholder. When I regained the use of my tongue, I eagerly questioned Carlo who seemed as deeply impressed with this superb piece of work as I was myself. Who was the great artist, and what was the name of the sitter ? The antiquarian knew neither the one nor the other. All he could tell me about the picture was that a person had brought it to him a few days before, who said it had belonged to the family of the Marchese di S — ; and he named one of the bestknown noblemen of the city, who had recently died. Then I asked Carlo his price. " Neither that, nor a much less sum will I give you," I said, "since you gave nothing like that for the picture." " What matters it what I gave ? It is worth double the sum I mention. But as for that," said the avaricious old man, again taking up the paper wrappings, " I am not anxious to sell it yet." "I will give you," said I, "fifteen hundred lire." The dealer shook his head. " Four thousand." But I need not relate how we debated the matter. I became the possessor of the treasure for the sum of two thousand five hundred lire, and Carlo, after closing his shop, carried it home for me, and received his money with a goblet of wine. Great was my delight at finding myself the possessor of so unique a work of art, and I sat far into the night contemplating the beautiful presentment. If it is possible for a man to be enamoured of a counterfeit, the image of a creature that may perchance have had an existence only in the artist's glowing imagination, such I was. For many days I could think of nothing but my beautiful picture. I found an intense pleasure in merely contemplating it, and on my excursions into public places—in the streets, in the shops, and in the public gardens—l continually pictured the unforgettable face before me.

I kept the secret hidden in my breast. I might have bidden those who were skilled in such matters to come and view my picture, and they might have given me information as to its author and its origin, but I had a feeling that if others shared with me the enjoyment of it, I should lose a portion of the pleasure I had as its possessor. It was about a month after the buying of the *ork that I had to journey to Rome on matters of importance, which would keep me for some weeks in that city. One of the first persons whom I .visited in Rome was an old friend of my schooldays who now lived in the Eternal City, and whom for long I had not seen.

The evening after ray arrival this friend took me with him into a club or society of men which be frequented almost nightly. Here we passed a pleasant hour or two. T returned with my friend to this company on the second evening and on this occasion it was that I made the acquaintance of the Cavaliere di

«jo»asri, wao aiso was a memoer 01 the Club. The Cavaliere di Corasti was a chamberlain and master of the horse to a great prince whom were Ito name I should speak of matters in the social history of Rome that are well remembered to this day. I cannot explain why this Corasti excited in me a great curiosity from the first evening I saw him, yet such was the case. I disliked him though he had done nothing to in cur my displeasure, but, on the contrary, had been extremely polite and friendly. I put questions about him to my friend. The latter knew little of him. Corasti was very rich, he said, and very popular in Roman society. He lived the ordinary life of tho wealthy young Roman of fashion—he hunted and rode and fenced and gambled, passing lightly from one pleasure to another. He said Corasti was popular ? Ah, yes, and the reason was (and this was the only noteworthy thing there was to say about him) that he was the husband of a remarkably beautiful woman ; but it was rumoured that they did not live amicably together, though my friend, knowing nothing of Corasti outside the Club, could not say as to this.

You see, there was nothing to cause me to pay particular attention to this man. There were many in Rome v/ho were not on good terms with their beautiful wives, and Corasti was little to be distinguished from many another young nobleman.

Yet I was interested in the man, but in no friendly spirit. I disliked him intensely. He was a handsome man, dark, tall, and muscular, and as his full red lips parted, the white teeth gleamed under his glossy black moustache like a woman's when he laughed. I grew to hate him. Why I knew not. He even tried to be friendly to me, but while he fascinated me I was cold to him, and even repulsed his advances. At home I asked myself why I should entertain feelings of such deep ill-will to the man. It was not because of his beauty. That was laughable indeed. It was not that he was rich. I envied no man, being myself possessed of all I needed.

Of reasons why there were none ; yet the more I saw him the more my antipathy grew, until on the fifth or sixth occasion on which I met him I felt a loathing for him which I could hardly keep from turning into actual violence.

I tried to cure myself of this ; I would even absent myself from the places which I knew he would be frequenting. But with this deadly feeling of hatred there was also a fascination in him that made me seek the man's presence and would not permit me to avoid him. This lasted for two weeks. During this time I had not forgotten my picture. I would return to my lodging from some place where I had met Corasti, and placing myself before the lovely image, try to calm my heated passion. But the result was the very reverse of what I had anticipated. Strange to say as if there were some curious connection between the picture and the man, the more I contemplated the one with a longing desire, the more also my veins throbbed with an unutterable rage and loathing against Corasti.

So it seemed to me —bo indeed it was, though as I realized the fact I sweated and burst into laughter, asking myself if I were mad. Another would have thought that I verily was demented. One night my feelings bo far obtained possession of me that I picked up a knife—an ancient dagger, though still serviceable, that adorned the wall —and thrust it into my breast with the intention of seeking Corasti. Then I realized what I was doing, hurled the thing from me, and rushed from the house, shrieking with laughter. It was the day after this that I was walking in Rome with my friend, when we passed Coristi in a carriage. The vehicle was waiting at the door of a shop. The Cavaliere greeted us, and as he did so a lady issued from the shop and took her seat in the carriage. My surprise when I saw her was so great that I staggered across the pavement. The lady was beautiful — beautiful as none I had ever seen before —but what caught my attention was that I knew her face as wellnay, better than my own image. It was my picture in the body and living in the streets of Rome. She and it were identical ! As she passed she raised her eyes and looked at me. I had seen that look thousands of times. Then the carriage passed. " Who is the lady ? " I asked my friend. " Do you not know ? That is Flora Corasti, the most beautiful woman in Rome ! " " I believe it," I made reply. I felt very faint. We went into a tavern and drank some wine. Then I took my friend to my lodgings and bidding him sit in a chair, without a word I placed before him the picture which usually I kept concealed when I was not alone. He was intensely surprised. " It is Flora Corasti," he said. " How did you come by it ? " " It is the Corasti," I cried, "and jet it cannot be. I bought it in Florence six weeks ago. How can it be she ? Do you not see the painting is a hundred years old ?" He examined it more carefully. " Perhaps more," he answered. "It is very wonderful." It was more than wonderful ; it was unnatural. For it was plain to both of us—and my friend was no stranger to art—that the colours of this work could not have been placed on the panel within less than a hundred years, and yet it was as near a likeness of the wife of the Cavaliere Corasti as the most gifted brush could make, with the. exception of the difference in costume. I passed a troubled night for these happenings made me feel sick at heart. I feared now that I was the

victim 01 Borne aiaooucai magic, I tried to convince myself that I was a fool, and the likenesa between the woman and the picture was but a curious coincidence ; but the matter would not lot me rest.

My hatred towards Corasti grew more.intense, while, stranger still, I confused in my thoughts the living woman and the picture, and began to feel for the one the same intense admiration that I entertained for the latter, not distinguishing that she was more than colours on wood. I hurry on. Two nights later I met Corasti in a place of public entertainment. It was still early in the evening. Each being alone we conversed together, and he invited me to accompany him to a quiet cabaret that he knew, where the wine and the table were good. I consented. The eame kind of fascination that had previously worked on me prevented my refusing. I felt that I, too, had a personal interest in the matter.

Very soon I began to drink heavily to conceal my feelings. Corasti who knew nothing of this, was friendly and lively. After supper he proposed cards. We played, and the attendant, placing all we need near at hand, left us. Corasti won from me a large sum of money.

Suddenly there arose a discussion about a card misdealt. I called him a liar. He retorted hotly. We both rose. Then I dealt him a blow ; he raised his hand to strike me, but in an instant my dagger was out —I did not remember taking it with me—and Corasti lay at my feet, with a great steel thing in his heart. He had died without a groan. The table and the floor were covered with cards, blood spattered my clothes, the floor, the legs of the table. I felt easy, light-hearted. Quickly I wiped my hands and clothes with the dead man's handkerchief. Then I left the gold he had won from me on the table and walked out of the house by a side door without being observed. I had no hesitation as to what I was going to do. After walking through a few streets I hailed a public carriage and bade the driver take me to a house to which I directed him. It was the residence of the man I had murdered.

There were lights on the ground floor, and a servant in livery opened to me. I dismissed my coach and asked to be announced to the signora. It was now late, but after leaving me for a minute the man returned and bade me follow him. In a beautifully-furnished salon, lighted only by a shaded lamp, sat Flora Corasti. As I entered she rose and gave me her hand. " You ! " she said.

We had never spoken before. She had only seen me once when I saluted her husband in the street. " Yes," I answered. " I have brought you news." " My husband is dead ? " she asked. "He was killed half an hour ago." " Then you killed him. I guessed it would be so." Tears rose to her eyes, but they were not tears of grief. " I hated him," she said. " I was forced to marry him by my parents. Ob, how I hated him ! He was cruel to me." " I also hated him," I answered. " I know. I was the cause." " You ? " " Yes. I made up my mind that someone should kill him. For very long this had been in my mind. I determined that some one should deliver me—should revenge me. I did not know who it would be, but whoever did it would earn my gratitude." She gave me her hand again. I took it and kissed it. " Nay, your love," I said. "It is worth it," she answered. She said all in a calm, quiet voice, and I believed all she said. Then I spoke to her of my picture and how I believed it bad verily influenced me. She seemed not at all surprised. " Heaven also wished to help me!'' she exclaimed. " You have been good to me." " I love you ! " I cried. "'You have freed me from a honor —from a living death." Then our lips met in a long embrace. She lay in my arms, nor for long attempted to stir. She was feeling the new freedom of her position.

Then I spoke. "What will happen to t us ? " I ashed. " Nothing," she whispered. "We shall remain here until the dawn. Then we shall take carriage and drive away from Rome—far, far away where we shall be safe." We sat in the elegant room pressed close together, but speaking little, until the silvery dawn stole in. Then she kissed me on the lips again and rose. Quickly she went to another room, changed her dress, gathered together her jewels and some money, making a packet of them, and then enveloped herself in a heavy cloak. " Come," she said, and we stole together out of the house. On, we walked, fearless and free, until we encountered one of the public coaches that plied for hire and was returning from a late engagement. This we stopped, and first bade the driver take us beyond the city's limits. Then I helped the lady in, but as I was stepping in myself, a heavy hand was laid across my shoulder. I started and looked round while a shriek broke from the Corasti's lips. With a groan and a shudder I fell into the arms of two of the prince's officers. Our journey was ended. I repeat what I said in the beginning—that that which I have written is truth. And now I await my doom.